


Sense of Sexuality

by koldtblod



Category: Fresh Meat (TV)
Genre: F/F, Misunderstandings, Season/Series 04, Sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 05:56:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12205206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koldtblod/pseuds/koldtblod
Summary: Oregon's got herself a new friend from the poetry society, but Vod begins to suspect - between all of the blushing and giggling - that there's something more than friendship on the cards.





	Sense of Sexuality

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in my last term at university and rewatched the entire show instead of actually working on my sketchbook (it wasn't the worst decision I've ever made). I'm still gutted that there was no confirmation of Vod and Oregon's lesbian romance, and so... I wrote this.

   Vod isn’t one to get jealous. Not really. Not anymore. Vod takes it as it comes because she has learnt that anyone worthy of her time will show an interest anyway, sooner or later, and there’s no use in crying over someone that she can’t have. Rejection hurts, of course, but really, she knows that some people just don’t work together – Josie and Kingsley, for example. Sam and JP. Her mum and dad. That’s just the way things are. In real life, there isn’t always a happy ending; you can’t always get what you want.

   Really, she’s quite good at removing herself from painful situations. Vod just thinks that, well nevermind, there’s another guy like him somewhere – another girl like her. Even her dad has a new family now, and a new baby daughter that Vod is told looks uncannily like her. Of course it fucking stings but the point is, there’s always a replacement. Javier has a new girlfriend. The guy from college who had promised to take Vod to Rome has taken her best friend from high school. And Oregon...

   Well, nevermind. There were always exceptions.

   Oregon brings a girl home, one evening. It’s not too late but they’ve been out for drinks alone – someone, Oregon says, that she’s met in the poetry society. This girl has blonde curly hair and caramel skin, round tortoiseshell glasses and a badge pinned to her jacket that declares “homophobia is gay”. Other than that, really, there’s no reason to suspect that anything’s going on and everyone greets her warmly enough and without assumption.

   “I love meeting new friends!” says Josie.

   Oregon just laughs breathily and runs to fetch another bottle of wine.

   Vod goes to bed early, but she sees the girl leaving the next morning shortly before Oregon slinks into the kitchen. Her hair is misplaced and she looks quite rumpled, a little hungover, and laughs a little more as Vod hands over her own bacon sarnie.

   “Rough night?” she asks.

   Oregon simply says, “We drank a bit too much.” And she nibbles at the bread, and looks at the floor.

   But then another week passes and this girl is still coming round, and Vod starts to think that maybe – just _maybe_ – this isn’t merely friendship. This girl smiles at Oregon in the same way that boys do, and Oregon is all giggles and blushing, and awkward side-eyes at everyone else to check if they’ve noticed.

   It’s strange, because Vod would never have pegged Oregon for anything other than straight and okay, she might have been wrong – might have been entirely too self-centred or whatever the fuck – but she’d _thought_ that if Oregon _was_ anything other than straight that she, Vod, might be the first girl she’d go for. At least, Vod had _hoped_ that she’d be the first girl Oregon would go for. Their friendship could easily be confused, afterall, and Vod was the safest option, right? – the closest, easiest option? And it wasn’t like she hadn’t dropped hints, thousands of times, about the way Oregon’s hair curled or about how attractive she was.

   But apparently not.

   She’s making a cup of tea in the kitchen when the pair of them come prancing downstairs one day, giggling and grinning. They’re going on a picnic later – a fucking _picnic!_ – and they’ve packed all of their sandwiches and crisps and bottle of Prosecco into the basket, along with blankets and blow-up pillows, and a fucking camera to document their wonderful day. This girl – Vod is starting to hate her, and she’s not even done anything wrong except turn up at their kitchen table a few days a week and gush about how amazing their very own Oregon Shawcross is.

   “I’ll just get my shoes!” she says, and disappears into the hallway.

   Kingsley, sitting with his guitar on the couch, merely frowns up after her. Oregon smiles and nods and looks around at Vod with an air of breathlessness.

   “We’re going to Platt Fields,” she says, “and there’s an open mic night in town later, with poetry!”

   “Hey…” Vod catches her elbow. “Not that I’m bothered or… you know, anythin’, but… what is she?”

   Boyfriends were one thing, of course. They didn’t bother her so much. Boyfriends were a given if you thought that Oregon was straight and that you weren’t and that, oh well, you never had a chance anyway, might as well help out and hook them up. But a girlfriend? Vod liked to imagine that either way she wouldn’t care, but actually she did, and the fact that she’d missed something completely here was everything except comforting to her.

   Oregon gives a sort of difficult smile and a half laugh and squirms out of Vod’s grip. “I dunno,” she says. “She’s just – just – ”

   “Is this a date?”

   But Vod’s time is up, because this girl reappears in the doorway, red lipstick smile and white Doc Martins, and the fucking ridiculous, stupid, fucking “homophobia is gay” badge pinned to her jacket again. Oregon grimaces in response, grabbing for the picnic basket and Vod has no choice but to let them go. The front door closes and she can only slam her hand against the kitchen counter. Tea sloshes over the side of her mug.

   “Um… I’m just checking,” Kingsley starts tentatively, “but are you okay?”

   Vod glares, not bothering to dignify him with an answer, snatches for her mug and stalks out of the room.

   She supposes that she should be pleased. It isn’t as if she has it bad, and has to listen to the sound of them fucking every night – unlike, in Kingsley’s case, the slam of Josie’s bed against the wall whenever she brings home a new boy. When Oregon and this girl are up in her room, all Vod ever hears is their chatter, sometimes whispers, and then long periods of quiet accompanied by a soundtrack of Tegan and Sara. The bedroom door will open and close at some point in the evening, and Oregon’s quietened laughter will float into the hallway. And so what?, Vod tries to tell herself. This is her best friend – she should be supportive. She should be supportive in the same way that she would with any boy, and be pleased that Oregon had found someone nice and just accept that she’d made her choice and that it wasn’t Vod.

   But she isn’t supportive, and she certainly isn’t pleased. Honestly, Vod doesn’t know how to feel. She just stares out of her bedroom window for the rest of the day and smokes until she’s exhausted, and by nightfall, her anger has dispersed into sadness and she curls up and waits for Oregon to arrive home. When they bump into each other on the landing the next morning, Oregon is still wearing her clothes from the day before.

   “Hi,” she breathes, and Vod can see the flush creeping up over her neck and she wants to tell her to knock it off.

   “Alright,” she says instead.

   Oregon smiles, a little awkwardly. “The poetry ran over,” she says, as if offering an explanation. “We missed the last bus and so – it was easier – I stayed over.”

   “Yeah,” says Vod.

   Oregon fidgets with the hem of her shirt. Maybe Vod should want to tell her that it’s okay, because they’d all stumbled in after spending the night with someone – but Oregon had never looked like this after sleeping with Tony Shales, or Dylan Shales, or any other man for that matter. This is a different sort of embarrassment, and Vod can feel the uneasiness crawling up her spine and all she wants to do is get away.

   “Vod –” Oregon begins, and it’s started in that awkward tone that means she’s about to justify something, when she’s backed into a corner with no where to go, and wishes that it would all just blow over.

   “Yeah,” says Vod again quickly, because she knows where this is heading. “It’s – I know – I get it.”

   Oregon nods, and Vod just stares at her and waits for whatever’s next.

   “It’s just,” Oregon continues, “I’ve never – and I don’t know what I’m doing and – is it – okay? I’m not even sure how it’s happened. I just got so carried away with the society and now she thinks that _I’m a_ _lesbian_ and – I can’t say no – I’m not sure that I want to say no but – is it – are you – ”

   It all comes out in a big rush, and trails off into embarrassed uncertainty, and Oregon looks up at Vod with such confusion and sheer guilt that Vod can’t even bring herself to be angry. A brick seems to have dropped into her stomach, and she struggles to form the sentence; to force the words out of her mouth, because it’s not okay, not even a little.

   “Girls are fine, Oregon,” she says, very shakily, despite herself. “Of course it is.”

   She’s never told a lie as bold. Oregon hugs her – tightly, with her ear pressed against Vod’s chest and her head tucked under her chin – and Vod can only swallow her jealousy and pat her friend consolingly on the back.

   “Thanks, Vod,” she hears her say, and Vod just sighs and presses her face into Oregon’s shoulder.

   For the next week, she watches both of them from afar. It’s life as usual, more or less, whenever Oregon is by herself around the house, although Vod can’t help but feel as if something’s broken now that she knows Oregon’s secret. It isn’t that they avoid each other, but Vod is anxious to get too close – in case she comes off wrong, or Oregon doesn’t want her there. And it’s worse, of course, whenever this girl stays the night.

   They sit curled up on the couch together, generally with a book between them and a large bag of Cool Original Doritos. Oregon is still casting anxious glances about the room, as if scared that someone else will notice and call them out. JP has certainly cottoned on, because he’s never looked so happy in his life as when they’re around, and Howard is forever dropping well-educated hints for Josie to catch up. Vod just grits her teeth, burying herself in her coursework. It isn’t that she dislikes this girl – although she does, passionately – because she’s perfectly normal and nice and makes Oregon laugh, and makes Josie laugh, and sometimes she does the dishes for them in the mornings and has even made Vod several cups of tea. But this girl is oblivious, and if anyone was going to confuse Oregon’s sense of sexuality, by rights, Vod thinks it should have been her. This poor girl is convinced, without a shadow of a doubt, that Oregon has always been like this.

   It’s fucking awful.

   But it all comes to a head some three weeks later, when they stumble in once again from some swanky Northern Quarter bar and instead of giggling their way to the fridge to pull out another bottle of wine, their voices are raised and Oregon seems irate. Vod’s just coming down the stairs, but she hears them in the living room at the same time as Howard opens his bedroom door. They stare at each other for a second, and then listen.

   It’s something about relationships, muffled in part by the door. Vod can’t be sure, but she can guess well enough that they’ve both had a bit to drink, because Oregon is sounding just a little too shrill to be sober. Her girlfriend is angry – accusing – and Vod finds it easy to imagine her loose blonde curls flying about as she slurs her words and gesticulates wildly with both hands. Something smashes, and then Oregon really starts crying.

   “Vod’s my best friend!” she's yelling, without a shred of hesitation in her voice.

   “Stop it!” comes the reply.

  Vod braces her forearm against the wall. A cupboard bangs, and Oregon cries something unintelligible.

   “I can't believe this!”

   “I haven’t done anything –”

   And then they're both shouting.

   “Why don’t you just go home!” Oregon yells eventually.

   The door flies open, and this girl comes barging into the hallway with her jacket hanging from one of her arms.  She looks quite as wild as Vod had suspected, and the glare that she gives is one of pure dislike – of pure, drunken anger – in the second before she’s gone, slamming the front door behind her.  Vod doesn’t move, and it’s only when Oregon appears in front of them does Howard back-trace and close his door again.

   “Are you alright?” Vod asks haltingly.

   Oregon shakes her head. It seems to be all that’s left of her self-restraint, however, because then she bursts out into a fresh wave of tears and rushes into Vod’s arms. Both Josie and Kingsley have appeared at the top of the stairs, pyjama-clad and confused, and Vod can only glance up at them sympathetically as she presses kisses to the top of her best friend’s head.

   They go to sleep that night in Vod’s bedroom, with their clothes left jumbled together in a pile just shy of the wash basket. Oregon cries a little more, and throws up once, and Vod holds her hair and strokes her back because she cares about Oregon, and that’s what friends do. She doesn’t care that her pillow is soaked with snot and tears by the time Oregon finally falls asleep; simply rolls a spliff and slides out of Oregon’s embrace, so that she can sit on the windowsill and look down at her and wonder what the hell is going on.

   She isn’t sure that she wants to be around when Oregon wakes up – sober – and properly comes to grips with what’s happened. Vod half contemplates taking her phone and blocking the girl’s number, because that solves both problems, but really that isn’t fair and Vod knows it.  She could never look Oregon in the face and tell her that, _oh, your pretty poetry girl said she never wants to speak to you again,_ because that’s too dramatic a fabrication and even though it could potentially be true, Vod has no proof.  She doesn’t know for sure.  And there’s still no clearer solution when she’s finishing smoking.

   Instead, she hunkers back down and wraps Oregon – stinking of whiskey – up in her arms, and pretends that her stomach doesn’t flutter when Oregon presses an unconscious kiss to the side of her neck.

   The fallout isn’t so awful. Over the next few days, the rest of the house slowly comes to realise what they missed in the early hours of that morning, and Oregon comes to decide that she doesn’t mind so much anyway; that it was fun while it lasted, and brushes the whole lesbian affair off as if it were nothing. Vod smiles and agrees, and acts as if she hasn’t seen the messages both to and from Oregon’s phone – all of them decisively hostile and suggesting that, as usual, Oregon had been wilfully ignorant of everyone’s feelings except her own. It’s a misunderstanding, as she tells it, but Vod isn’t entirely convinced. There’s something else.

   She keeps thinking about that argument, and how her own name had been thrown unceremoniously into the middle of it.  Really, Vod is tempted to suggest that she wasn’t the only one amongst them to be jealous, because it was as if Oregon had argued about it before.  Vod, she’d said, with the desperate air of someone fed up with repeating herself, is my best friend – and there was something wholly tragic about the need to clarify that.

   She’s never been one for poetry, but somehow Vod understands the jealousy.  It isn’t that she means to find them – has only borrowed Oregon’s notebook to double-check their assignments – but suddenly everything starts to fall into place.  It appears that she’s featured in several of Oregon’s verses as of late, and friends didn’t usually write each other into the lovesick stanzas of their coursework without reason.  Oregon’s romantic – of course she is – and it only makes sense that her poetry is as floral too.  But she could have written about her girlfriend – or whatever she was supposed to be – and she’d had other fervent admirers, of course, and notable romances of the past that she could have used for inspiration.  But she had written about Vod.

   Vod has never thought of herself as having soulful eyes, nor the subtle curve of a waist or anything, really, that inspires poetry and she spends several minutes pouring over the notebook as she tries to figure out why every single simile is compared to violets.  She isn’t soft, she isn’t delicate – she probably doesn’t smell as pleasant as they do – and she certainly isn’t what anyone would consider to be a conventional poetic beauty.  She repeats the descriptions of herself, however, out loud enough times for her mouth to go dry and stumbles over words like handsome and homely.

   Really, when she thinks about it, Oregon has never been very conventional herself.

   But no one’s ever written a love poem about women like Vod – except perhaps Shakespeare – and Carol Ann Duffy, but Vod hates her anyway so why does it matter.  She looks good, and Vod knows this undoubtedly, but Oregon’s captured a whole different side of her and if she, as the inspiration, can’t even live up to the romantic imaginings of herself, how in hell did Oregon’s girlfriend ever stand a chance? And what would she write about Oregon, if she had the opportunity? 

   She scans in the poems in the university library regardless, and stashes a copy for herself when she hands the notebook back to Oregon.  

   Kingsley has to ask, of course. It’s a Friday night and everyone’s assembled in the kitchen donning either pyjamas or, in Vod’s case, their weekend finery. She hasn’t meant to do it but she’s got this vivid red lipstick on and a pair of Doc Martins laced up to her calves, in a sickening imitation of Oregon’s pretty little poetry girl, and she’s waiting there in the doorway as Oregon fixes her hair and contemplates changing her skirt. But Kingsley brings it up – possibly because JP’s pressing him in the ribs, and Josie’s making weird head movements towards them, and Howard’s just rolling his eyes as if he already knows the answer.

   “So,” Kingsley says, with an air of fake indifference, “are you gay… or not?”

   Oregon laughs at this. “No,” she says, and she bids them goodnight, and grabs for Vod’s hand and pulls them off to the pub.

   Kingsley has never frowned so hard in his life.

   It’s there that Vod asks her, because fuck it, she might as well, and after a couple of rounds and a shot of tequila she’s feeling a little more confident, and Oregon keeps grinning and learning over the table towards her in a way that seems endearing, even playful.  She’s on her latest spiel of nonsense about Susan Howe and Vod decides that it’s now or never, and takes a swig of her beer and just comes out with it.

   “Oregon,” she says, “ _are_ you gay?”

   Oregon stumbles to a halt, her brow creasing in confusion, taken aback at the sudden interruption.  “Howe is a feminist poet, Vod,” she says, incredulous, starting to laugh. “Am I – what?”

   “I don’t mean,” Vod continues, “properly gay – I know you ain’t a lezzer, Oregon – but – you know – a bit?”

   “No,” says Oregon again, but she’s slightly high pitched and by now Vod has learned to realise when she’s lying or, at the very least, not expressing the entire truth.  Oregon screws up her face, apparently conflicted, before Vod starts to grin and then, haphazardly, she snorts and drops her gaze.

   “A bit,” she says.

   And as Vod’s laughing – satisfied at last, overjoyed at her victory – Oregon pitches herself across the table and kisses her wide open mouth. Vod’s got her hands on the lapels of Oregon’s jacket before she can second-guess. She wants to ask – as a commotion of men by the bar take notice and start to whoop cheerfully – whether Oregon really thinks that her eyes are soulful; but Oregon’s elbow slips and then there’s glass and the remains of Vod’s beer all over the floor, and they can both only break away and laugh ridiculously as the bar tender comes running with a dustpan and brush.

   “You didn’t have to prove it,” Vod says, because she can’t quite believe that Oregon’s mouth is now the same carmine red as hers.

   “I know,” Oregon says, breathless, “but I wanted to.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, reviewing, and etc! And, if anyone's wondering, Oregon's pretty poetry girl is called Lois and I'd love her wholeheartedly.


End file.
